Whill was shocked. “Was he murdered?”
“No one knows,” Zerafin said. “Some speculate that he poured all of his life energy into the blade, leaving himself none. Within his study his followers found three words written in blood.”
The intensity of their combined stares made Whill uncomfortable. “What did it say?”
“
“Whill of Agora,” Avriel translated.
“Whill of Agora?” Whill.
Just then Abram joined them. “You speak of Adimorda, I see. His followers pored through his many scribblings and scrolls and found one of great importance.”
Avriel concurred. “The last scrolls of Adimorda spoke of one who would wield the blade Adromida, one who would rid the world of the Dark elf Eadon and his many legions. Whill of Agora.”
Whill now saw it all clearly. Though he was reluctant to believe he had such a part to play, the evidence was undeniable. “The sword Adromida cannot be wielded by an elf.”
“Correct,” said Zerafin.
“So it is up to me. I alone must wield the blade and destroy Eadon.” His voice held little enthusiasm.
Avriel looked from her brother to Abram and finally to Whill. “There is one other who could wield the blade.”
Whill knew before she had finished. “My uncle Addakon.”
Abram nodded. “Addakon.”
“Where is the sword?” asked Whill. “Was it brought from Drindellia?”
Avriel shook her head with dismay. “No. We do not have it, nor do we know where it is. For more than four thousand years the Order of Adromida did what they had been sworn to do. The Order was composed of hundreds of monks, and each and every elf poured their life energy into that blade. Every day, all day, there was always someone within the temple, strengthening the blade, for four thousand years.”
Avriel paused and stared at Whill, scrutinizing his reaction. When he only stared back, she let out a huff. “Whill, do you understand the great power that Adromida possesses? Having been given the energy of so many for so long?”
Whill thought on it for a moment. “No, I cannot. It is unimaginable. The wielder of such a blade would be like…like a god.”
“Yes. And can you imagine what Addakon would do with such power?”
Whill knew then that if Addakon ever got his hands on the great elven blade, all would be lost. Whether he liked it or not, he, it seemed, was truly the only hope.
Abram lit his pipe and blew out a puff of smoke. “Now you begin to see. This is why I think that Eadon has come to Agora-he is in search of the blade, but also its wielder. It seems that he has found Addakon. And together they will stop at nothing to acquire Adromida. I believe that is indeed why Addakon killed your father. With your father and his unborn child dead, the only man with the power to wield the blade would be himself.”
“And now he knows that I live. The throne is but a minor issue, is it not? Addakon wants me dead so that I cannot find the sword first.”
“Indeed.”
“Then why are we heading for Kell-Torey when we could be looking for the sword? Do we have any clues to where it may be?”
Zerafin put a hand to the air, gesturing for Whill to relax. “We have been looking for the sword, of course, since we learned of your existence.”
“But what ever happened to the blade? Who took it?”
Avriel looked in Roakore’s direction, and said in a lowered tone, “The dragons.”
Whill gave out a frustrated laugh and put up a gesturing hand to the stars. “Of course. Dragons!”
Avriel only nodded, not amused. “When the war of Drindellia began, Eadon destroyed the Temple of Adromida and took the sword as his own. Though he could not wield it, he kept it for himself. He knew that if his enemies had it, they might find a way to use it against him. We elves had a strong friendship with the dragons for thousands of years before Eadon came to power. They viewed Eadon’s creation of the Draggard as a great insult.”
Zerafin took up the telling. “Avriel was born after the wars had begun, but I remember when it all started. I was 120 years old. Our father begged the dragons for help, but most refused. Less than twenty decided to form an alliance with us. That was near the beginning of the War of Drindellia, and though the dragons aided us greatly in the many battles, the Dark elves were too powerful. We were defeated, and all but one of the dragons who aided us were killed.”
Avriel interjected. “That dragon, the red dragon Zhola, with the help of a host of elves, managed to steal Adromida from Eadon. The elves were killed, but Zhola returned the sword to our father. Our father told him to leave, to take the blade somewhere safe, somewhere far away. And so he did, and was never seen again.”
There was a pause in the story as Whill looked at the ground, his mind racing. Abram sat likewise, puffing his pipe. Avriel went on.
“We have spoken to a few of the dragons, though they are hard to find these days. As you know, they have been mostly driven from Agora by dwarves and men. The Agora dragons live now on Drakkar Island, but few dare venture there, not even we elves.”
“The dragons of Drakkar do not know of the old alliances of dragons and elves,” Zerafin added. “They are wild and unfriendly, to say the least. Those elves who have tried to find out anything about Zhola have either died trying or found out nothing useful.”
Whill still felt hopeful. “But if there is anything to learn of Zhola, it is to be learned on Drakkar Island, is it not?”
Avriel was hesitant. “Correct.”
“Then that is where Addakon will be looking, and that is where I must look.”
Zerafin laughed. “You will go to Drakkar Island alone, and what? Simply walk into the dragon’s lair and ask about Zhola?”
“Actually, yes. What choice do I have? I will wait until I am stronger. of course, when I have learned the ways of the elves. But it is something that must be done.”
“It sounds foolhardy, but he is right.” Abram grinned at Whill. “And I will be there next to him.”
“As will I,” said Rhunis as he walked over to the small gathering. “Who better to have with you on Drakkar Island than Rhunis the Dragonslayer?”
“What are ye all talkin’ ’bout?” Roakore called from the fireside. “Quit yer yappin’ and come get dinner while it’s hot.”
They did as the gruff dwarf told them and ate beside the fire. Fresh-cooked venison, cheese, and bread-not such a bad meal for the road, and it was only made better by Rhunis’s wine. They ate and they talked and they laughed. To Roakore’s relief, Tarren had switched to pestering the elves with his million questions. Whill watched as the beautiful Avriel animatedly told Tarren a tale of the elves. He tried not to stare but found it hard indeed. A few times Zerafin caught him, though he said nothing and showed no sign of his approval nor lack thereof.
Tarren went on to beg the elf maiden for a song, and she happily agreed. All other conversation died as Avriel sat up. To Whill she was like an angel, so beautiful did she look in the firelight. As she began her song, he heard an angel’s voice to match.
